Easiest Thing
by tolkienlover
Summary: Fear of hurting the one you love the most is what haunts and destroys. Maybe that's why he won't touch Frey. (Dylas X Frey; rated T for intense romance; Rune Factory 4)


Hey guys! :)

So this is basically me releasing a few weeks of pent up emotions on this oNE HECK OF A GAME. WOW. I LOVE IT.

Anyways.

I really have no idea where this came from. At all. I was just admiring Dylas in-game, handing him some milk porridge, and this idea just hit me like a rock! But yeah, hope you enjoy and please don't hesitate to tell me what you think! :)

Oh! And warning: this isn't _nearly_ bad enough to be rated M ( I don't think. Nothing actual, just kissing, ahaha), but it is really, ahhh, romance-ish? Ahaha, so just be warned(;

* * *

 _Easiest Thing_

The fear of hurting the one you love is what hurts the most.

( Dylas X Frey; rated T for _intense_ romance; lots of pointless fluff/lime; Rune Factory 4)

* * *

She had always found limit within reason.

Instead of throwing random seeds into plots across her land, she would measure and count and till to limit, smiling and humming and watering as she restocked her field for the seasons.

Instead of buying whatever she wanted and throwing her money down the drain, she spent it in proportion, putting it to good use—she used it for gifts and for seeds and for things that would help the townsfolk rather than herself.

And instead of forcing all of her affections upon everyone, growing specifically close to everyone she met, letting everyone know her deepest secrets—she was friendly and polite to those around her, but only found solace within those she would call her closest of friends.

Yet, there was no limit when it came to Dylas.

Frey constantly scolded herself, reminding that she didn't have her memory back yet, that she could be forced to leave at anytime, that all of her connections here would be lost and she would once more have to start over—but when she thought about Dylas, there was nothing she could do.

It seemed that most recently, he was all she thought about; nearly everything about him made her smile. Frey found comfort in the man who was lost in time, hazed by memories that he didn't understand—quite like she was. It was a connection they had, like two lost birds in the skies, the wind bringing them closer and closer by each passing day.

But she nearly felt as if he didn't think the same way.

Not because he didn't care—it was quite obvious that he did. He followed her like a shadow sometimes, smiling to himself as she greeted each person in the town, handing out gifts and pleasantries and subtle "Good morning!"s. He awaited her with bated breath, his eyes always catching hers the moment she entered the restaurant, and his face would light up, even if in just the slightest way, as she smiled right back. When they were together, he was lighter, happier—Dylas was the man that Frey knew she loved.

But it hit the princess like stone when she realized what was missing.

Dylas wouldn't touch her.

Not even in a friendly way; no good morning hugs, no friendly shakes. It occurred to her more and more that he flinched when she came too close, that he would shy away from her hands when she tried so desperately to touch his face or his fingers or his skin. He hadn't even kissed her; many times, Frey thought he would, but he backed out last second, muttering under his breath.

And that was where she was left now, wondering why she was so undesirable in the eyes of the one she loved.

"Maybe he's just afraid," Xiao Pai said shortly, shooting a thoughtful glance to the girl sitting beside her. They were seated together on the shores of the lake, talking aimlessly about what was bothering the young princess.

Frey had her head in her knees, her arms wrapped around her legs as she sat on the shores of Dragon Lake. She watched the water ripple as Xiao Pai tossed a stone in, the waves reflecting the crystal clear sky like a mirror, the water itself hardly visible through the sky's reflection. She sighed.

"Maybe," she said softly.

"Oh, hey, maybe—Frey? Xiao Pai?" The voice that sounded in Frey's ears made her smile slightly, letting loose a bit of the tension thrumming beneath her skin. She lifted her head to give Margaret a glance. The musician came up quickly and dropped down to sit beside the two others, her face etched with slight concern. "What are you two doing here?"

"Frey is concerned about her sex life," Xiao Pai said plainly, and instantly the girl beside her responded, a groan at her lips.

"Way to be subtle—"

"Oh my, Frey," Margaret said lightly, and she laughed in such a way that it sounded like bell chimes, a tinkling, uplifting sound, "Is Dylas not doing a good job? I would have figured—"

" _No_! That's—well it's not really, ah, _his_ fault, I guess." Frey sighed again, tugging at the tips of her mint green hair and biting at her lip. The midday sun set behind the clouds reflected on her skin and left shadows to dance beneath her fingers as she trailed them across her knee.

"So _you're_ not doing a good job?"

Frey hid her face behind her legs, groaning. Her face grew a few shades darker as she blushed, her eyes closing. "Maybe?"

"But you told me that he hasn't touched you!"

" _Xiao Pai!"_

Frey's best friend gave her a confused look, only to smile as she noticed the blush crawling further and further up the farmer's face. Rolling another stone in her fingers, Xiao Pai gave her a slight nod and then looked to Margaret, who had removed her shoes and stockings to dip the tips of her feet into the edges of the water.

The elf looked at them both with a questioning look.

"So he's either really terrible at touching you," Margaret said, and Frey's face grew darker, "or he hasn't touched you at all. Does that sound about right?"

Frey mumbled something into her knees, scoffing lightly and then balancing back on her hands to look up into the sky.

"So maybe he hasn't even tried," she admitted in defeat, her lower lip poking out as she thought.

"Have _you_ tried?"

Frey looked back to Margaret with a surprised expression. "Am I supposed to?"

"Well, sure," she replied, and she winked at Xiao Pai, who was giggling into her hands, "I mean, if he's not going to, you don't really have anything to lose."

"I suppose so…"

All three of the girls jumped at the sound of stone hitting stone, and Xiao Pai's face grew red as she puffed out her cheeks. "Why do I keep _dropping things?_ "

The other two ignored her.

"But you're going to have to go to extremes," Margaret said, nodding her head, "Men are complicated things, Frey, but there's three simple ways to their hearts." The elf pushed up against the ground, rising to her feet, and took a few steps back, only to stretch to her fullest height and ruffle her hair, letting it fall over her shoulders in slight curls. "The first way is through their thoughts. You have to show him that you're worth thinking about all the time, sort of like music, you know? You want to be the song stuck in his head."

Xiao Pai stumbled to her feet and went past Frey to stand beside the musician, fiddling with her hands behind her back. "The second is through his stomach," the girl added, running a hand over her torso like that would do any good demonstrating and laughed. "Mother told me that. Just give him his favorite foods whenever he's around!"

"And the third…" Margaret let her hands fall gracefully to her sides, blushed lightly, and then gave a slight swivel of her hips, letting her hair comb in waves over her skin and running in a soft, blonde frame around her face, "Is through his instincts. A bit strange, really, but men usually have a thing for, ah, "flaunting what you've got" as Pico put it the other day. Dolce almost killed her, I think."

Xiao Pai ran her fingers through her hair, bringing it down to form light bits across her forehead, and batted her eyelashes, tilting herself onto one foot and smiling softly. She lasted for about twenty seconds, though, before losing her balance and falling right into the pretty elf beside her. They both tumbled to the ground, one shouting "Sorry!" and the other holding at her head and sighing.

Frey stood this time, shaking with laughter, and leaned to help them both up, Margaret first and then Xiao Pai. The musician scowled for a moment before shaking her head. "So Frey, invite him over tonight," she said determinedly, "And before he shows up, come by my house, alright? We have some work to do."

Xiao Pai giggled lightly as Frey took a deep breath.

"Ah, sure, Margaret."

Anything to figure out why she wasn't worth touching.

* * *

"This is insane," Frey mumbled embarrassedly, her voice soft, "This won't work, this won't _ever_ work, this won't—"

"Oh, stop worrying, Frey," Margaret said laughingly, a bright smile on her lips, "You look _beautiful_."

The princess glanced in the mirror of Margaret's house once more, only to feel her cheeks alight in flaming red, blush spreading like an ambush across her skin.

Margaret had lent her a dress, one that pushed much lower on her chest than she would have liked, and it was easily the shortest thing the girl had ever worn. When her hands were at her sides, her fingers touched warm skin instead of fabric, a feeling she most certainly was not used to. The dress was a few shades darker than her hair; a sweet, earthly mint color that complimented her eyes and gave her a flushing tone to her skin that Margaret claimed was adorable. It didn't fit quite right, though—the elf was a few sizes smaller than the farmer, quite obviously, and the dress clung to her like a second skin; there wasn't much left to the imagination about the girl's figure, and Frey was nearly positive that her friend had done that on purpose.

What was worse, however, was the set of matching undergarments that she shoved into her hands, proclaiming they would complete the outfit further and that if you're going, you may as well go big or go home. The silky fabric was a light shade of rosy pink, and the more Frey thought about it, the more ironic it became to her—the color similarly matched the flush that had decided to make a home on her face.

"He won't be able to resist you now, dear!" She flashed her a smile before straightening out her own curving blonde locks behind her pointed ears. When she caught Frey's timid expression, however, her mouth turned down in a frown and she sighed. "Really, Frey, you don't have to worry. It's not like you have to face an army of squid. It's just Dylas; you love him, remember? I promise he'll understand."

"I just—"

"If you don't want to go through with this, then talk to him right when you see him, first thing. Just confront him about it."

"I just don't want to disappoint him, Megs." Her words were nearly a sigh. "Is that why he won't touch me? Because I'm a failure?"

Margaret paused to look at the girl, and gave her a soft smile. She spun Frey around to look her in the eye, and though as an elf she tended to be much taller than other girls, Frey stood tall enough to give her a full on look, her green eyes widened. "I've done this a few times in my decades, Frey." The farmer nodded slightly. "Trust me on this one. You're certainly not a failure and Dylas loves you. Just go with it and it'll work out, I promise."

"Alright," Frey said, and she squared her shoulders. Before stepping out, however, she locked her arms around Margaret and hugged her tightly. "Thanks a ton, Megs. I don't know where I'd be without you."

"Probably at the bottom of the lake because Xiao Pai knocked you in."

Frey laughed into her friend's shoulder and then released her, giving her a smile. "Thank you."

And with that, she disappeared on to the darkened street with a slight tremble to her step and a set look to her face.

* * *

Her room was deathly quiet as Frey set her table, the thud of a fork and then a spoon against the wooden surface being the only noise that sounded in the quiet space. She trembled, her fingers shaking, and when she tried to place down a glass, her hands shook too much to hold it steady.

She cursed under her breath...

"You can do this, Frey," she said quietly, running a hand through her hair and setting the glass down with a bit of force. The table rattled. "It's just Dylas and this just like any other night, just with…different clothes and better food."

The princess went to her small pot atop the lit burner and poured the milk porridge into two bowls, both of which she carried to set beside the clumsily placed silverware and glasses filled with water. A light steam came off of the food and as it hit Frey's nose, it calmed her; something about milk porridge was strangely familiar to her, a warm scent of home.

The knock at the door made her heart stop and then start, her blood rushing loudly in her ears.

It was now or never, she supposed.

Her thin, calloused hand touched the brass knob for just a moment and the door came open beneath her touch.

The scent of rain was what caught her first; overwhelmingly mixed with a scent of fresh hay and thyme, she was nearly knocked over by the pure smell that caught at her nose. She was almost scared to look Dylas in the eye, but it happened nearly instantly, and she could of smirked at the sight.

His eyes were dropped wider than she had ever seen them, rounded and colored with such a light tint of lavender, Frey thought they might as well be blue. His usually flattened ears were raised high atop his head, making the edge of her mouth turn up in a smile.

"Hey," she said quietly, and he sputtered for a moment before composing himself into his usual poker face.

"Evening," he returned, and he followed in behind her as she shut the door closed, leaving the scent of rain to run rampant through the enclosed space. Dylas shook out his hair at the doorstep and discarded his shoes, all while the girl watched him with cautious eyes.

When he turned back to look her in the eye, there was a moment of silence and a fierce, locked gaze.

And then the intensity became too much.

"Is something wrong?" He blurted, his hand outstretched as though he would like to comfort her, to run across her arm in empathy.

"I'm…alright."

There was another quiet moment before he spoke again.

"You look…nice," he told her softly, red flushing his cheeks, "Is that new?" He made a gesture to her dress, his eyes looking downwards slowly before darting back to her face.

She smiled shyly at him and nodded. "Sort of."

Frey took a slight step towards him and to her surprise, he didn't move, his eyes locked with hers; he was frozen in his place, watching her with such an intensity, she felt as though she might burst into flames; her skin crawled with a heat that was new to her.

A step forward, and then another—soon she was close enough to touch him, to reach her hand out and graze his skin with her fingertips—

Dylas stumbled backwards, tripping over his own feet and steadying himself against the wall, his hands pressed to the stone paneling. His breath was harsher than before.

Frey's smile dropped.

"Dylas," she said softly, her voice hardly above a whisper, "Am I…Do you not… _want_ me?" Her face was confused, her eyes wide, as she spoke quietly, tugging at the ends of her hair.

The man took a harsh breath and scowled, leaning back against the wall and hiding his face in his hands, his eyes closed. He tried desperately to get her out of his mind—her dress, her hair, _her_ —a groan came from his mouth and he threw his head back to hit it against the wall, resulting in a thump that echoed in the room.

"Frey, I—I can't—"

She took a step closer, and tilted her head. "Hey, wait, Dylas—what's wrong?" Gone was the hurt in her voice; in its place was a sense of comfort, of concern. "Are you okay?"

The man hit his head against the wall again as he hands fell to his sides, whitening as he clenched his fingers to fists. _Don't think about her dress, Dylas, don't think about her mouth or her hair or her skin that trails far under that dress…_

Another hit to the wall.

"Dylas! _Stop!_ " Frey was scared to touch him, afraid that he would hurt himself further, that the head banging wasn't enough punishment. She got as close as she could, though, and when he opened his eyes, his breath shaky, he was met with wide, green ones, framed with full lashes and a ring of shadow beneath.

"Frey, you need to—"

"I'm sorry, Dylas, I just—"

"Damn it, Frey, _don't apologize!_ " The man tightened his fits, and his face appeared conflicted, like he was fighting a battle, though it seemed this one was with himself. "I can't—you just— _please_ don't apologize." His last words were broken, softer than the rest—it sounded as though his barriers had broken a bit, that they had given a bit of space. His next breath came out in a shudder and his entire frame shook.

"A—are you…afraid?"

His eyes snapped open and she was still there, mint green curls and dark emerald eyes and all. His response was instant. "Am _I_ afraid? Afraid of what?"

Her face flushed. "Me."

Dylas would have laughed if he wasn't clenching every muscle he could manage, constraining himself in every way possible. Instead, he groaned again. "Goddess, Frey, you make this ridiculously hard."

"But I don't—"

"I should go—"

"No!" It was too late; he had moved slowly, slow with clenched muscles and gritted teeth, and she had reached out for him. Her hand laid across the side of his arm, encircling his wrist in her fingers.

The only sound in the room was their breathing, low and dark and heavy, as neither dared to move. Dylas' breathing was harsh, rough even; he hadn't expected her to try, to try and touch his bare skin—she had touched along his clothes before, a casual caring to his shoulder, a soft, very quick brush to his hand, but there was no protection past the slight of his sleeve, the small show of skin there was bared to the world. And she had somehow caught it.

Dylas very nearly came apart right then and there. Her skin like silk across his own, warm and soft and demanding, tightly closed around the poking bone of his wrist, her slim, calloused fingers caught in a loop there. He hadn't expected such _soft_ skin; the last time he had touched a woman was before he was a Guardian, years and years and years ago, but damn did just that one brush leave him breathless.

He remained still.

"Dylas," Frey whispered, and it was slow and quiet and soft, all while she held her grasp firmly, "…Please. Tell me what's wrong. I'm supposed to have your back through thick and thin, but if I can't even hold your hand…"

The man remained stone still for a minute longer, listening to the rise and fall of her chest, the breath that made its way through her lips, the blood that thrummed beneath her veins that his all-too-keen Guardian senses picked up on, and then he closed his eyes and sighed.

"I—Frey," he moved so that his wrist in hers was still put, his hand remaining unmoving, but twisted so he could look her in the eye, "I love you. And I don't mean that I love you the way I love my milk porridge warm, or the way I love to fish when there's warm rain falling from grey skies, or the way I love fifteen extra minutes of sleep in the morning. I love you in a way that I've never felt before—in a way that takes me from the inside—in a way that _consumes_ me. A—and I couldn't live with myself if I ever…I ever hurt you. Not again."

She didn't move.

Not at first.

But in that instant, it seemed that her heart stopped, that all of her fears and her doubts and her troubles melted away like raindrops in the morning, dew come to pass; all of her doubt that Dylas had ever doubted _her_ disappeared into the air and evaporated, and Frey felt like the strongest person in the world. A strength in her burned at the core of her heart, capturing her entire body and rocking through her like pure energy, like she ruled the world.

Dylas loved her too.

"Y—you love me," she said, and her voice was hardly concealing her happiness, the golden feeling that beat out across her skin, "Oh, Dylas, I love you, I—"

He pulled his wrist from her hand and she paused, her eyes careful.

"I can't be the one who hurts you, Frey," he said. "I just can't be."

"You _don't_ hurt me, you never have before—"

"Don't you remember? I almost _killed_ you!" He shouted, and his hands returned to fists, his skin growing whiter as he scowled. "Goddess, Frey, that damned memory has been on replay ever since I met you. Watching as Vishnal carried your limp body away, watching as—as," He nearly toppled over and caught himself on the wall, leaning his forehead against the stone and clenching his teeth, "as a stronger man than I am carried away the mess I made."

Frey didn't have a response as Dylas' harsh breathing sounded in her ears.

"Thunderbolt wasn't you, Dylas," she said finally, softly, a whisper in the dark. "He was a monster made from a sacrifice, a darkness brought from light. And he _did_ nearly kill me, but you saved me." She took a step to the side to force his attention, to catch his eyes with her own. "Thunderbolt _could_ have killed me. Do you not remember that part? Vishnal was across the field and I was stranded in the corner, trapped.

"Thunderbolt stood across from me, and for a split second, I thought I was going to die. But your eyes—yes, yours; the same color, even—watched me for a moment, and then you let me be." Frey bit her lip and withdrew the hand that wanted to desperately to touch his cheek, his face—anything that she could bring him comfort with. "You didn't kill me, Dylas, you gave me life. You _saved_ my life."

Dylas lifted his head from the wall to stand tall again, to look her in the eyes, and his face had changed. His eyes were lighter, his face less strained—it looked as though an entire lifetime of burden had been taken from his shoulders. He was shaking, but he remained still, his eyes locked with hers, and Frey swore she could feel his heart beating from where she stood.

Slowly, her hands moved from her side, and with bated breath, she brushed her left hand across his face, pushing away locks of his bangs that had fallen over his forehead. He took a ragged breath.

Her left hand lingered, trailing over the tanned skin beneath his eyes, her thumb making light circles into the push of his cheekbone. Her fingers moved over the arch of his nose and over the rest of his face; first the indent of his eye and then they swept past his forehead.

His breath was still harsh, his eyes still locked with hers, but his muscles still clenched against his taunt skin, stretching.

"Loving you," she said softly, "is the easiest thing I've ever done. Even when it's hard and uneven and rough, loving you is like…like breathing after coming up for air. Like blinking when you've held your eyes open too long. Loving you is like the beat of my heart—automatic."

He moved before she saw it.

His hands went to her waist, wrapping tightly at her waist, as he turned her around, her back to the wall; his face came within inches of her own, close, unsteady—his breath was light and dark at her face, over her lips, past her nose. He was so close that his nose skimmed hers, and he relished in it.

He relished in the feeling of her hands, the ones that had threaded themselves in his hair in surprise; the feeling of her body pushed against his; the feeling of her breath, hot and heavy, across his mouth.

"Thank you," he said against her, his hands moving to either side of her, pressing hard against the cold stone wall, "Thank you, Frey, thank you—"

His lower lip caught between both of hers, and for a moment, time slowed into infinity; it was just a second, a clash of heavy breaths and quiet resolves, but the ghost of his tongue swept past her lower lip within the time before he moved back, this time further than a nose's reach.

She laughed breathlessly, her hands still tangled in his hair. "By the gods," she said quietly, and she felt him laugh shakily against her, his own frame unsteady but unyielding against her own.

"You're beautiful," he told her, and he told her countless times more; he could touch her now—goddess, he could _touch_ her now. He hands went from the wall to her waist again, this time running over the thin fabric and pressing against it, earning him a strange noise from the girl's mouth. His hands stopped only at her back where he caught his fingers together at the small of her back, holding her closer, tighter—she wasn't sure where she stopped and he began.

He was still shaky, his hands still trembled, but he was stronger now, his blood pumping in his ears, his thoughts wild and messy and uncontrolled. Dylas let his guard down, let his stronger, outer shell fall down into his clumsy, dorky self with messy kisses and soft resolves and uncontrolled laughs. He let himself dissolve into her, let himself get lost in her endless eyes, let her run her hands through his hair and back to his face—it seemed she hadn't gone without restraint as well, as her hands touched every inch of skin she could get to, every bit of openness that he would allow.

"Maybe," she said breathily, through pants, "We should sit down."

They were both heavily breathing, though they had shared but one brief kiss, and he quickly complied, startling her by wrapping his arms beneath her legs and carrying her like a child. Her head went to the skin of his neck, her legs wrapped around his waist, but he refused to loosen his hold. His mouth kissed at the showing skin of her shoulder, running lightly over it, breaths hot against it as he moved. He paused only to look over past her hair to see where he was going.

"Where—," A kiss to her shoulder, "did you have—," A kiss to her collarbone, "In mind?"

She kissed at his neck for a moment longer, her mouth at the curve of his throat, before revealing her face. "Let me down," she said, and he gave her a wild look, half-dazed, as if in disbelief.

"Just trust me," Frey said and it was then Dylas realized how flushed her cheeks had become, how mussed her hair had turned. "Let me down," she said again.

Reluctantly, he set her on her feet, keeping his hands on her, running them down her back. She pushed against his torso and he grabbed onto her dress to keep himself from falling, only to fall back into one of the strewn kitchen chairs. He was without her touch for a moment and it was cold—his hands already missed her and had only had the honor of her skin for what felt like hours but was most likely minutes. He wasn't without her for long, however.

Frey clambered into his lap, throwing her legs over the sides of his waist with a bit of hesitancy, biting at her lip. "I—I don't remember doing anything like this," she admitted quietly, "So I—I wouldn't expect much from me, Dyla—"

His hands were at her hair instantly, combing through the mint locks like fallen leaves, dusting past her face with quick movements. He cut her off by coming close to her face, his own inches for hers, and gave her a slight nod before melting his mouth against her lips.

It was their first real kiss, a measurement of trust and love and understanding—many of whom asked how they had survived with love without kisses earned only a shrug from the two; it seemed now that they couldn't stop. Their mouths were soft at first, gentle against the others, warm and allowing and calm.

But it frenzied faster than expected, and soon it was urgent, Dylas' hold in her hair pulling her closer to the point that she wasn't sure what part of her belonged to her and what parts belonged to him; everything flashed behind her eyes like sparks of lightning, the world spinning unendingly behind her closed lids. Her hands trailed over his shoulders as if it was their job, slowly but surely, tapping lightly at they found a new niche in his shirt. Once more, she was hesitant, but her fingers found the string to his vest and tugged and the bit of clothing came loose on his frame, dangling around his chest.

Dylas hardly noticed—his mouth was still hard and heavy against hers, all his attention pulled to her face, her lips, her legs; he wasn't sure what he loved more about her. The warmness that she brought made him want to proclaim to the world of what a treasure he had found. A treasure that he loved.

A treasure that loved _him_.

Frey pulled at the vest a bit, and jumped in surprise when it fell to the floor, making a bit of loud noise that echoed in her ears. Dylas pulled away, only to move his mouth to the curve of her throat, leaving feather-light kisses along her skin. She tried desperately not to make any sound, but not without restraint. She then began her work on the buttons of his shirt, pulling, tugging, yanking—finally the fabric fell to the floor and she was left with Dylas in his finest state.

He wasn't overly strong—not bulging muscles and taunt flexes—but lean and slight, like a bird. His frame was careful, conceded; everything about him was soft and warm and flexible. Frey ran her hands over his bare skin now, her fingers tracing details in design, running them over and over and over the skin of his stomach, his chest, his arms. Everything she could get to was beneath her touch, and it was overwhelming her.

She had never seen so much of him.

And he was beautiful.

Perhaps it wasn't the best word to describe her boyfriend, but he was. Lean and strong and warm, with arms that wrapped around her waist and tugged her closer every time she tried to get away. He was intoxicating and everything about him drew her in. He was beautiful. He was strong. He was Dylas.

 _Him, him, him._

Frey could hardly believe that so much had happened. Her mind was spinning like a swirly top, her thoughts jumbled. She couldn't think straight with his smell in her nose, the sight of his smooth skin her eyes, his mouth at her neck. So she was surprised when his hands found the lacing of her dress.

His mouth caught hers again and she didn't resist, only paid slight attention to his thin fingers that worked at her back, pulling and then yanking at the strings there. Finally, he had to pull away from her mouth, his lips ghosting across hers, his eyes still shut; "Damn," he said, and she nearly laughed, "How the hell do you undo this?"

"It unlaces," she whispered, "Pull the top string."

His hands were instantly where she told him, and when the strings came undone and the upper parts of her dress loosened, Dylas stopped breathing.

The fabric of her dress drooped slightly, revealing most of her shoulders and giving insight to the upper curves of her chest. The man's breath caught in his throat as he stared. Her skin really did continue on, smooth and silky and tanned—all the way down. He gave her a glance and back to her slightly bared chest, his eyes darker. "Can I…?"

"Okay," she said.

His mouth went straight to her collarbone, pressing darkly to the skin and leaving what Frey knew would be a mark. He swiped his tongue over it and then trailed further and further, kisses along her skin, his face pushing away the fabric of her dress…

The sight of a rosy pink strap had his face aflame, but he continued on, running his mouth over and over and over. _So beautiful, beautiful, beautiful…_

It was then, however, that Frey shifted forward, only to find resistance.

Her lower body pushed against his, and something hard and demanding brushed across her inner leg, making her gasp. Heat rushed from all corners of her body, abandoning all thought and reason, and pooled heavily just beneath her navel—

"Dylas," she gasped, and he paused, his own body suddenly rigid, "Dylas, I—I think we should wait."

His breath was heavy against the beginnings of her chest, his mouth close enough to touch the soft, pink fabric right beneath his tongue. The man stayed put for a moment, catching his breath, and then straightened out, coming up to look Frey in the eye.

Her mouth turned down slightly but she seemed determined.

"I—I'm sorry," she said, and her face grew even pinker, if that was possible, "But we just settled this sort of, ah, _thing_ , and—"

"No," Dylas replied, his mouth curling up, "Don't apologize. You have nothing to be sorry for. It was my fault that we hadn't done anything like this before. So, I'm sorry." His hands traced across her skin, slowly, softly.

It was quiet again, but it was comfortable; the scent of sweat and hay and honey was evident, stronger than even the rain that had found its way in earlier in the evening. Then Frey spoke.

"Oh damn!" She laughed as Dylas' face grew alarmed. "I had made milk porridge! It's probably cold now."

"That's alright," he told her, and he gave her soft kiss, his breath fanning out over her, before sighing. "You've given me something much better."

"Oh? And what's that?"

"Confidence," he said, "You. Love. You. Compassion. _You_. Are you catching on yet?"

"I'd say you like me."

" _Wrong,_ " Dylas said softly and he watched as her eyes grew fonder, her face softened against his, "I _love_ you."

"I love you too." Her voice was quiet but clear, and she smiled at him before looking at both his and her own chests. "But we should probably put clothes back on before we do anything else."

"Probably." He shrugged.

Neither of them moved until Frey said something quiet in his ear, her hands running over his shoulder blades and down his soft skin. "Is loving me really worth the trouble?"

He encircled her waist in his arms and moved his mouth to the point where her shoulder met her neck, where her scent was strongest.

"Loving you is the easiest thing I've ever done."


End file.
